


Out with the Old

by chillydeer



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), Almyran holidays are a trip, Byleth needs a nap but doesn't get one, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Holidays, Married Couple, New Years, Post-Game(s), Post-Time Skip, in-laws from another country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22126681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydeer/pseuds/chillydeer
Summary: “Mm.” Claude’s voice is at her ear now. “Funny how in the war you could travel leagues at the drop of a hat and take on beast after beast on the battlefield, but now a few days of feasting and conversation knocks you right out.”In which Byleth needs a nap during the new year festivities, and Claude arrives to distract her out of it.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 137





	Out with the Old

The pile of bedcovers, a mix of woven animal hides emblazoned with the golden horse emblem of Almyra, rolls in fluffy waves across a king-sized bed, and no fewer than five enormous embroidered pillows lay waiting to envelop a weary soul in their cushiony embrace.

Byleth has never seen a more inviting sight in her life.

They’ve just finished the midday meal in the palace’s grand hall. Even the so-called “casual” meals here are events in themselves during the Festival of the New Year. She loves the Almyran holidays (what little she knows of them so far) and  _ especially _ the food, but the whole thing is beginning to take a toll on her. 

So she’s stepped out for a bit of fresh air, slipping upstairs to the wing of empty guest suites - soon to be filled with more family and friends and visiting dignitaries - above the receiving rooms and the long pool flanked by stone columns, glimmering in the early afternoon light. She’ll have to be down again soon to resume her role as a new queen, but right now the guests (including her husband, their effervescent host) are carousing over the remains of their food and drink and won’t miss her for a few moments…

Byleth peels back the heavy blankets and runs a hand over gold silk sheets. She sits on the edge, unties the ribboned leather straps of her elaborate sandals to shake them off, and slides into bed. Complete bliss. Well, almost.

After a second, she sits up and unhooks the bustier that holds the swaths of her dress together. She sets her crown atop the garden mosaic of the end table beside her. Then come the tights, black and gold lace, and the dagger she keeps at her thigh, which she slips under the pillow.

She lies down and sighs in contentment at the cool silk against her skin. Just a brief rest and she’ll be back to one hundred percent, ready to field the convivial chatter of her new family and unsubtle solicitations of the ranking officials hoping to influence her through merrymaking.

The door creaks right as her eyes shut. Byleth has a hand halfway to her knife when she recognizes the intruder and relaxes.

“Whoa there, it’s just me,” says Claude with a laugh. “I thought I might find you here. Having a moment of respite, are we?”

He kicks off his own boots and climbs in next to her. She can hear the clink of his crown against hers as he drops it on the table. He still smells like roast veal and rosemary and wine from the feast below.

She smiles without looking at him. “Just shutting my eyes for a spell.”

“Mm.” Claude’s voice is at her ear now. “Funny how in the war you could travel leagues at the drop of a hat and take on beast after beast on the battlefield, but now a few days of feasting and conversation knocks you right out.”

Byleth opens one eye and sees him close, head on his right elbow, gazing at her with those green eyes that know too much. “Crest beasts have nothing on the Almyrans. I just watched your father and Nader tear through an entire haunch of meat each in less than three minutes.”

“Ha, and that’s when they’re on good behavior. Wait ‘til you see them get going.” He smirks.

“I don’t think the whole of Garreg Mach ever ate as much as a table of Almyran politicians.”

“Better to stuff their faces so we can have some peace from their squabbling,” he replies, yawning. Without his crown holding it up, some of his hair hangs down in his face. “Don’t get me wrong, I think you absolutely have the right idea here. Then again, you always were the tactical genius,  _ teach _ .”

She huffs a laugh at her old nickname, which blows the hair into his nose and back across his cheek. “Please, I wasn’t the  _ Master Tactician _ of the group.” 

Claude’s smirk deepens. “Yet you lured me directly into this trap.” 

“I didn’t ask you to follow me up here.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He slides his arm under her neck and pulls her close, her back to him. The skin of his cheek is warm against her bare shoulder, and she buries herself further into him. She loves moments like these, when he doesn’t have to be king or strategist, and she doesn’t have to be queen or archbishop, and they can let their guard down and be husband and wife.

“It’s nice having you here,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers along her side. “I haven’t been home for the Festival of the New Year in ages, and now there’s finally someone to have my back with my family.”

Byleth snorts but it’s half-hearted. She can sense his wariness underneath the good host veneer, when they’re holding audiences or bonfires or feasts and Claude’s cousins rib him with undisguised threads of malice (or is it simply jealousy?). The way his parents are - affectionate with each other and their son, and welcoming to Byleth - it’s easy to forget the rough stories Claude has told her of his childhood.

She feels Claude smile. “Heh, and they can’t grill me about marriage prospects anymore, thank Sothis.”

“No,” she agrees. She rolls her eyes imagining Sothis’s voice in her head, chiding her for falling for such an irreverent layabout,  _ what could she have been thinking? _ “But they can curry favor and inquire about the logistics of ruling two different countries at once, not to mention the question of heirs…”

Byleth knows that Almyra hasn’t warmed up to her yet - not even all of Fódlan has - but she doesn’t dwell on it. 

Claude nuzzles the back of her neck. “There’s time enough for that. For now, just relax.” He moves his fingers to her hair, petting her in lazy motions. “We still have a long night ahead of us. You have yet to hear my father sing his traditional raunchy new year’s ballad, always a classic.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Noise from the party drifts up through the windows behind them, which are open to the plaza below. It’s muffled enough, and Byleth is tired enough, that she has little trouble tuning it out amidst the layers of blankets and sheets. But her thoughts remain distracted.

It’s no secret that Almyra has had a foreign queen before, but this time their queen is also the current ruler of a newly united and war-ravaged Fódlan. And where Claude’s mother comes from one of the leading noble families of the Leicester Alliance (and more distantly, the royal line of Faerghus), Byleth comes from nowhere and nothing. She grew up as a mercenary after her father ran away from the Church of Seiros. She has no family, no lineage, no qualifications. 

(Whatever... _ divine _ connections she has are no basis for inheriting the rule of a nation, in her view.) 

But she doesn’t care about that now. It isn’t her first visit to Almyra, but it’s her lengthiest so far, and she’s met significantly more members of Claude’s family and cabinet than she knew existed. He’s taught her much of his native language, but she still sees the whispering and the skepticism, the obsequious words to her face followed by half-hidden jeers that they know she cannot understand. 

The politicians don’t matter - they will always be suspicious of her - but the family interactions dig into her more than she wants to admit. Claude is easy to like when he wants to be, chattering with his parents in a mix of languages, teasing his adoring aunts and being roasted in turn by Nader and his other old instructors. It brings a bittersweet taste to her mouth.

Now more than ever, Byleth misses her father. He would love the drinking and storytelling of the Almyrans and could probably give some a run for their money.

As usual, Claude reads her mind. “You sure you’re doing okay? I know my family can be a lot,” he hums into her skin. 

She hesitates. “Yeah,” she says. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ll never be enough for them. But I know it’s just nerves talking.”

“Byleth.” He leans forward to kiss her cheek. “My sun and stars. You almost single-handedly brought peace to a land that hadn’t truly known it for centuries.” This is a blatant exaggeration, but she lets him continue. “You fight better than anyone I’ve ever known and are a natural born leader. Frankly, you scare the shit out of them. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her face heats at the praise, and she swallows the doubts that counter it. She turns around enough to meet his eyes: unguarded, they hold a promise of new life, an oasis of tranquility full of hidden depths. Kind of like the fishing pond at Garreg Mach, now that she thinks about it.

“Once they saw you defeat five warriors at the same time, including Nader on horseback, I don’t expect they’ll offer you any more challenges for a long while,” he says, proud. And then, softer: “And, I don’t have to fight for my survival anymore with you at my side.” Claude brushes hair out of Byleth’s eyes. “Have I told you how bewitching you are when you fight?”

“Once or twice.” She strokes a thumb along his jawline and the fine edge of hair there. After a lifetime of battles, it’s still hard to accept that she can have peace. Maybe she doesn’t have to be afraid any longer. “I guess I’m just tired. Let’s cuddle for a while?”

Claude smiles and presses a kiss to her nose. “You got it.”

He settles behind her, fitting the shape of her like a warm and solid sheath to her sharp edges. Byleth closes her eyes. She plans to enjoy this nap in his arms as long as she can. 

They lie there for a minute or three, Byleth basking in his warmth. His right hand, trapped underneath her, has interwoven with her own. The soft puff of his breath in her ear calms her. There is a noise like splashing in the distance, most likely from the fountains below.

Then his other hand wanders beneath the open back of her dress, down the slope of her side around to her stomach. His lips find her neck just below her ear, and he kisses her, slowly, open just enough to tease her hairline with his tongue. The hand ventures lower past her hip and around the gauzy fabric to the curve of her ass.

“I see you’ve ditched the tights,” he says. 

She can’t help the tremor down her spine his voice causes. “They were intruding on my coziness.” 

Her festival dress is a waterfall of fabric layers, sky blue in the queen’s case, cinched at the waist in a bustier that provokes more than a few wandering eyes. Without her tights, it leaves him plenty of openings. 

“Well we can’t have that, can we?”

He takes full advantage, dragging his hand back across her inner thighs and up under the tightly woven cloth to cup her breast. 

Byleth sucks a breath in through her nose. “This is cuddling?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t need to see him to know the smirk is back. 

So much for her nap.

“Claude.” She arches her back to press both her chest and backside further into his touch. Already she can feel him solidifying against her through the silks. “We have to be back out there in less than an hour…”

“That’s plenty of time. Eons.” His voice is low and hot as he whispers into her shoulder blade. “They’ll expect us to be freshening up anyway.”

An hour is  _ not _ enough, she wants to say. Not by any stretch. Not when they live in two capitals and are separated for weeks at a time (and beset by responsibilities the rest of it).

“We’re in a guest bedroom that someone else is going to use later.” 

Her excuses are thinning and she knows it, but Byleth doesn’t relish being caught and adding more to the list of gossip about her. 

He laughs. “Someone will change the linens before that. This isn’t the war; we’re allowed to have all the fun we want, you know. And,” his nose nudges her hair out of the way as he kisses the junction of her neck and shoulder, “we’ll have a nice bath, in which I will personally scrub every inch of you to whatever standards you desire.”

She can’t deny how appealing that sounds, though it certainly won’t improve their efficiency.

Claude pinches her nipple between two fingers and gives it a gentle twist. She grits her teeth and writhes against him more urgently. “Is that an affirmative, my love?”

“ _ Claude… _ ” She drags out the word in a throaty whisper. Her eyes scan the ceiling and the angle of the light on the stone relief. It’s getting late. But she’s missed his touch lately, what with the festival madness - they’ve been falling into bed and passing out immediately the past few nights. 

It  _ is _ late—too late to deny that she wants it. Her breaths are coming faster now. Byleth reaches back to wrap her fingers halfway around the length of him through his pants, and squeezes. 

“ _ Oh, _ ” he purrs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

His arms tighten around her, and he latches one hand onto her breast while the other slides down to tease at her clit. His mouth is at her neck again, teeth catching at her earlobe. She moves her free arm to his head, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling. Goddess, he feels good against her. 

She widens her legs to give him more room, and he takes it. She’s already damp; his deft fingers slide into her, first one and then two, out and back again. 

Byleth bites her lip, unable to stifle a moan. It’s louder than she means to be, here in this strange room in a palace of strangers who have no qualms about probing into their private affairs, but not loud enough to worry. 

His hands continue trapping her from two directions, an embrace of sensation along her whole body. The slow pace of his fingers is a test of her patience that she usually relishes. But the ghost of his breaths in her ear, the peril of possible discovery, and the heady thrill of being irresponsible are forces she’s in no mood to resist. His hips are moving against her now, and her breath stutters. She drags his free hand to her mouth and kisses his palm to keep from making noise.

Claude hums a laugh into her ear. “Missed me, huh?”

_ No fucking shit, _ she thinks but cannot say. Only a garbled gasp escapes. 

Byleth rolls over to face him, her hand at his neck to pull him in, gripping his wrist with her legs to keep him in place between them. His mouth is warm, soft lips and rough patches of stubble around his chin; she kisses him greedily on the lips, on the jawline, on his neck. Her legs entangle with his, and she grinds a thigh where he’s hard against her, consumed by the flush of his skin and the breathy noises he’s making. 

How much time has gone by? How long can they steal this moment? Byleth doesn’t want to treat each kiss as a gamble, but... “Ah, shit, Claude—”

There’s a scuffle as he pulls her dress open in the front, revealing almost her entire chest. With a greedy look of his own, he kisses a slow, wet path downward, the light scratch of his face raising goosebumps across her skin. She lets him explore each breast with his tongue and hisses when he teases her with teeth. Her hands linger everywhere, down his back, along his shoulders and the dip of his collarbone peeking out below his chin, grazing her nails down his clothed chest. When she presses forward to bury his face in her cleavage, she’s rewarded with a muffled moan of his own. 

“I’ve certainly missed  _ you _ ,” Claude says, one hand caressing slow circles into her shoulders to match the pace of his other stroking her below. 

His gaze, wide and dark, rakes over her face, and - oh Goddess, his _fingers_ \- she feels its heat almost as acutely as his lips on her neck. She squeezes her eyes shut, and he smiles into her skin. Claude, _her Claude_ , always making her feel wanted, flooded with affection. 

“My turn,” she says, voice thick. In one move, she pushes him onto his back and rolls to straddle him. Her dress sleeves are hanging halfway down her arms, and she yanks the fabric out from under them both to pull the whole thing over her head and fling it to the floor.

A noise like a splash again, closer this time, barely registers in her mind. Whatever’s going on out there can’t possibly matter more than this.

Claude lies disheveled underneath her, and they drink each other in while catching their breath. She can feel his need in the way he grips her thighs, in the hardness through the thin layer of his pants, now wet from both of them. Wearing his ridiculous kingly attire, some kind of golden green and brown embroidered vestment with several sashes, he looks like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.  _ Her _ gift. It gives her no small pleasure to be the one who gets to see him like this. To peel off the layers of his various masks and strip him bare underneath her. 

It doesn’t take long to remove and discard his tunic, dragging her hands and her mouth and then her breasts through the hair along his warm skin, just the slightest touch.

“Byleth,” he breathes, and she follows the motion down his outstretched neck. The look on his face makes her throat go dry. 

Byleth moves to unlace his pants with deliberate slowness. Claude watches her, swallowing audibly. She schools her expression into its neutral state, the blank slate that Claude teased her so much about at the Academy. 

“You like watching me fight, don’t you?” Her tone is quiet and matter-of-fact, but her hands on his stomach are another matter, toying with his waistband. “You want me to call upon the power of blood and magic and ravage you senseless.”

She rises up onto her knees to pull the layers of cloth over him, exposing him down to his thighs. Claude rasps out a breath. “If I had to choose one way to go...” he says, meeting her gaze with a sly grin.

“I see.” She continues scooting backwards and pulling the layers over his feet until there is nothing more between them. “Would I also be correct in thinking,” she crawls toward him again, kissing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and watching him struggle to stay still, “that you might like the Sword of the Creator,” she encircles her fingers around him and strokes just once, “wrapped around you like this?”

“Gods,  _ Byleth, _ ” Claude whines. Too needy to laugh fully. “Don’t stop.”

But she doesn’t listen. With her full weight on his legs, she lets go and leans down to brush his tip with her lower lip, using languorous kisses to spread the leaking wetness up and down his whole hard length. He groans and bucks his hips upward, but she backs away, sitting up to adjust her position. 

Claude licks his lips. An unspoken request that Byleth obliges, coming up to kiss him with her lips full of him.

“Not that I don’t love this, but—ah,  _ mmmf _ —we shouldn’t dally much longer.” 

Byleth presses her weight against him and smirks at his ragged breathing. “Who says I’m dallying?”

She finally,  _ finally,  _ settles atop him, and the sensation of him, skin to skin, sends pleasure ricocheting through her body. The quickening pulse she can’t feel at her heart, she feels instead where he thrusts inside of her. Byleth no longer cares how much noise they might be making. It’s too much effort to quiet their bodies, the creaking bed, the wracked half-sounds that tear from their lips.   
  
Her head drops back, mouth open, but she doesn’t look away from him as they find their rhythm. It’s the same and not the same each time; undone and unburdened, Claude is an open book beneath her, marked from the war in the places she knows, where he’d been caught unawares and her healing couldn’t erase the scars. And Byleth, in turn, opens herself up for him and him alone. She  _ feels  _ more with Claude than she’d thought possible. Just when she thinks she knows herself, knows him, there are more pages to turn, more stars in the sky to discover.

She can never keep herself from him for too long, and soon they spill into and over each other, a sweaty, sticky, happy mess. 

Byleth sags against him with her arms draped around his neck. “Happy new year, Your Majesty,” she murmurs, smiling through her heavy breaths. 

He wraps an arm across her back and kisses her forehead. “ _ Yours, _ ” he corrects. “I’m only yours.”

There is nothing beyond their shared breathing for a minute, Byleth rising and falling with his chest. She still hears sounds from below, louder now: uproarious laughter and goblets slamming against tables. But over the top of it, she notices something else.

She turns her head and peeks through the doorway to the adjoining room, where the sunken bathtub, inlaid with designs of archers on horseback, is now full of water, steam hissing as it escapes into the air. 

Byleth arches an eyebrow at Claude, who raises one back, the picture of innocence. 

“I may have asked for it to be filled on my way up here.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Is there a problem?”

She groans and buries her face in his chest, smiling against her will. She should have known he’d be two steps ahead of her, as usual. At least the bathing rooms have separate entrances for servants to come and go; she may have stabbed anyone who tried to enter through the bedroom.

Claude laughs, a low rumble. “C’mon, before it cools.”

He nudges her and she rolls off to one side, still clinging to him. “What if we skip the rest of the party tonight?” She trails a hand down his chest and curls fingers into the hair there.    
  
“Don’t tempt me,” he says, but he sits up and slides off the bed. Byleth takes a long look over the lines of his shoulders down to his legs as he stretches, enjoying this moment of having him all to herself. She considers asking a handmaid to brew a pot of their strongest tea so she’ll still be awake when the festivities end and they return to their quarters.

He comes around to the other side, grabs her hand, and raises it to his lips. 

“Now,” he kisses it with the gentleness of the sun kissing the horizon, “let me wash the old year out of you and we’ll start fresh.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2020! I had some inspiration for a scene like this - the exhaustion of holidays with family from another country/culture - and it felt so Claude & Byleth to me that I had to write it. Thanks for reading!!
> 
> (Edit: I didn't like the pacing of the second half, so I went back and tweaked it. No major changes. Hopefully it's an improvement, but I'm gonna leave it alone from here regardless!)


End file.
